


Simpler Said Aloud

by pilotisms



Series: Simpler Said Aloud [1]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Arthur Morgan Deserves Happiness, Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Humor, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Good ol' kidnapping, High Honor Arthur Morgan, Post-Blackwater, Pre-RDR2, Reader-Insert, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-02
Packaged: 2020-06-04 17:43:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19425445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pilotisms/pseuds/pilotisms
Summary: Kidnapping a railroad magnate’s soon-to-be-wife on the basis of rumors would have never boded well for the Van der Linde gang anyways. Mistakes are made, sisters are kidnapped, and the O’Driscolls ruin it all, sending you and the gang’s lead enforcer on a wild goose chase through West Elizabeth.Originally posted on Tumblr.





	1. OF ROBBERY, KIDNAPPING & MURDER.

“ _Kidnapping_ …?”

It sounds so damn _simple_ when said aloud.

… All of Dutch van der Linde’s plans usually do.

Arthur Morgan, though, a man built on _loyalty_ and fiercely so, would never openly admit he hates how easily the aging leader of the Van Der Linde gang can string him and the others along with the promise of success and cash. Swindling – it’s like _second nature_ to Dutch; he’s slippery and well-spoken and charming and _cunning_ more than anything else in this world.

_He’ll be a snake in the next life_ , Hosea used to say with wisdom and wit, _Just you see._

There’s something respectable about it, though – Arthur is aware he himself is far too easy to read to be some gallivanting gang leader destined to bring his people promises of fortune and health and all things good. He’s always been like that. His intentions show on his face. In moments like these, Arthur needs not to say a thing. Instead, his hesitation shines through in a scowl, his disposition morphed into something unimpressed and skeptical.

Hosea can’t help but hide a smile into his cup of coffee. The boy he’d nearly nursed is a _man_ now – through and through – but still holds a youthful sort of ruggedness to him at times. Arthur is _pouting_. Plainly put.

“Kidnapping,” Arthur says again, sounding it out and not liking the taste it leaves in his mouth, “I _dunno_ , Dutch…”

“ _Mr. Morgan_ ,” it’s Karen who speaks then, looming over Arthur’s shoulder and pointing out the skepticism in question, “All I’ve been hearin’ is chatter about the O’Driscolls –”

Her voice is eager. Ever an excitable woman.

“And wouldn’t it be nice to beat Colm to the punch?” cracks Micah, as if he’s some kind of _puppet_ for Dutch.

_ Kiss ass. _

The rickety wooden table in the center of van der Linde’s camp has gathered nearly everyone – save for Abigail and little Jack – and Arthur is suddenly very aware of the eyes glued to him.

The outlaw crosses his arms, pushing a hand along his jaw. A low rumble works itself from his throat.

“So, _what?_ We kidnap some _girl_ for money,” Arthur drawls on, sounding out the plan, “Ransom her off, expectin’ th’ law, who, _mind you_ is still diggin’ through the hills of West Elizabeth lookin’ for us, to _ignore_ it? We’re still getting our footing here an’ –”

“And _cash_ would help,” says Dutch, “I understand your hesitation, my friend, but –”

“But, Arthur has a _point_ ,” Hosea, ever the voice of reason, musters, “This is going to garner attention.”

“Who is this lady anyway?”

It’s Mary-Beth who steps up, now, hands clasped tightly around her journal. “She’s the daughter of a lawyer from Point Pleasant, a town out West. _Turner_ is the family name – rumors been spreadin’ like wildfire that she’s due to marry some railroad magnate named Waylon Robbins.”

“Right,” Arthur scoffs with a bitterness everyone knows well, “A friend a’ Leviticus Cornwall, no doubt.”

“Brother-in-law, actually.”

“Yer _kiddin_ ’.”

“Not at all,” Mary-Beth insists, “Meaning there’s a lot of _money_ here, Mr. Morgan, and that is why the O’Driscolls want to make the first move.”

“How’d y’ hear about this again?” Arthur leans back in his chair, knuckles drumming on the table before he waves and bites in with a questioning tone, “Can we confirm _any_ of it?”

“Sure can,” John says, “Charles and I scouted out the area the girls heard them talkin’ about – the O’Driscolls have set up camp there, no doubt ready to choke the carriages off when they hit the pass.”

Arthur spares Charles a look. He trusts him more than Morstan. Charles nods. Clapping Arthur’s shoulder.

“This could be good, Arthur.”

“… Seems like y’all have all made yer minds up, then.”

“We just need our _best man,_ Arthur.”

That’s a plea if he’s ever heard one. Dutch is leaned forward now, hands on the table and eyes set on his left-hand man. Hosea, to the right, is quiet, watching as the blonde outlaw exhales.

Then, he sips his coffee.

After a moment of silence and weighing the odds, Arthur Morgan shrugs.

“Kidnapping, then.”

A chorus of woops circles the table.

* * *

The ride is _miserable_.

That’s really the only way you can describe it – I mean, there you are, _sweating_ bullets across from your bitter mother and bitter father and your less-than-amused younger sister. Jenny, though, spares you a single look and, from your left, nudges your elbow and offers you her fan.

You gratefully accept it. You feel like you could throw up.

_ Fwip, fwip, fwip. _

You’re weighed down by the intricate gown your mother had _insisted_ upon for this morning’s failure of a breakfast – your hair had been done up an intricate plaits, pinned with pearls and the promise of marriage. The corset around your waist is awfully tight, maybe _too_ tight, and your find yourself wishing you could just rip the plooms of fabric around your shoulders off. The high neckline might paint you all sorts of _sophistication_ , but right now, it just makes you want to scream.

What you’d give to be back home, back at your desk. A good book would take the edge off.

Cue another miserable pass of more silence.

The carriage rocks and you hold your breath, trying desperately to stop the whole world from spinning. You’re tied between tunnel vision and hurling when your mother catches your eye.

_Fwip, fwip, fwip,_ a bit more furiously now.

“ – You surely can’t be _serious_.”

“Of course I’m _serious_ ,” you bite back with a woozy look, “I won’t –”

_ “Enough.” _

You father doesn’t even look at you.

Miserable. Absolutely miserable.

And that’s when the yelling starts.

* * *

Overhead, a hawk cries.

The sand dances with mirages in the valley.

The carriage, a deep plum and with windows blocked by plush curtains, rocks along.

From his spot on the grassy overlook, Arthur drops his binoculars back into his sacel and pushes himself up into a squat. He taps Charles shoulder, beckoning to John. The both blink up at him, squinting into the sun.

_ Christ, it’s hot. _

“Tha’s our lucky carriage,” he says, “Both of you, on me. We’re gunna run ‘em West of th’ gorge, Dutch an’ Micah an’ Hosea will choke ‘em off on th’ other side of th’ pass. Don’t wanna get the attention of the O’Driscolls now.”

The mid-day sun is beating on Arthur’s back when he beats into the stirrups and kicks his stead into a sprint – the formation is lead by the blonde outlaw, quick to wind through the mountain pass. Bandanas and sleeves are pulled up, faces masked under the black material and brim of hats.

It’s something mighty _terrible_ – they are, all of them, outlaws and criminals and wanted men in this moment – the sight of the them, holstered up and with fire in their eyes, might be enough to scare off even the most daring of lawmen. Arthur, in the heat of moments like these, is proud to be in thick with the thieves.

This feeling? It’s _unstoppable_.

And so, in a storm of dust and vicious jeers, the van der Linde gang descends upon the Turner family’s carriage.

* * *

“What in the fresh hell –”

A bullet tears through the middle of the carriage.

In one side, out the other. Straight between you and your father.

Symbolism is one hell of a thing, isn’t it?

You and your sister blink at it.

The furious _fwip, fwip, fwip-ing_ of your fan stops and suddenly, the carriage kicks forward in a panicked sprint. You yelp, gripping Jenny tight as your mother flies into your lap with a screech. As if the jarring movements of the carriage hadn’t already been horrid, now it’s worse – the yell of the driver rattles through the cabin.

_ “We’ve got a problem, Mr. Turner!” _

You move, peeling aside the velvet curtains – up along the ridge are three men on horses, pounding into the sand; the sight, if it wasn’t so real, could be considered awesome like something out of a story-book. Your jaw falls slack. Their faces are hidden beneath bandanas, guns gripped tight in one hand and reigns in the other.

Highwaymen.

Their whoops echo off the canyon walls.

“You’ve got to be _kidding_.”

This is, _officially_ , the worst day of your life.

Suddenly, your view is blocked by the dark side of a horse pulling up along the carriage – you’re offered a single, humorous tip of a hat by the man in question, striking blue eyes pulled into a wildly devilish look. He spurs his horse on, moving to press himself up onto his saddle. His boots, polished jet-black with golden spurs, glint in the light.

And he _jumps_.

Arthur lands atop the carriage with a heavy thud, ribs screaming in protest. He’s sweatin’ like a pig now, gloved hand moving to grasp at his hat as he gets his footing. He pushes on, leaning as he digs his fists into the driver’s shoulders of his dress shirt.

“Sorry, pal.”

The carriage rocks and you blanch as the driver – a kind man by the name of Thomas – flies by your window with a horrible scream. _You_ fly forward as the carriage is stopped dead in the middle of the canyon pass.

The carriage skids, tipping violently back and forth as it settle in the dirt. The dust kicked up around the carriage begins to settle as you realize you’re stopped in a standstill. 

There’s another cry of a hawk above.

_This is an awfully well curated robbery_ , you think. The high, rocky walls of the gorge are blocking the carriage in and the circling of the highwaymen atop their horses becomes ever present.

Along with the laughter.

The outlaws are laughing.

Inside, the carriage is silent.

Jenny grips your hand.

“John,” it’s your mother, clinging to your father with a whisper, “What do we do?”

“We _reason_ with them –”

You spare a look at your father, then, and his usual coolness is back – his aging face is set with an angry sort of determination that is swiftly cut down when the door to the carriage is yanked open.

If this wasn’t life or death, maybe you would have gotten more satisfaction out of it.

“Hiya, folks.”

The gun pressed to the temple of your father riles a scream out of your mother. You and Jenny keep quiet, lips sealed tight, and you watch as the men seem to double in numbers – suddenly, there’s three hauling your family from the carriage. You watch as Jenny is passed into a rough grip, one man helps her down and another trains his hands on her waist.

Stepping into the sun, you blink rather incredulously, at the act.

Irritation, born out of the heat and torture of the morning boils over.

When you emerge, struck square in the face by the heat of the summer sun, the gang falls into silence for a breaking moment, all eyes landing on you as you stand in the doorway of the carriage.

You’re certainly _something_ – a high-class girl poised in a dress worth more than him, he reasons. Your hair, swept into an intricate style, screams Paris couture and Arthur realizes that all the rumors the girls had overheard about you must be true. You look like you sleep on a mattress full of money.

Arthur shares a look of approval with Dutch.

This might actually work, this whole kidnapping thing.

“And _you_ must be th’ Miss Turner we’ve all heard _so much_ about.”

It’s a low drawl.

Arthur, sweeps his hat from his head, dropping into a rather mocking bow as you recognize him as the one who’d kindly chucked Thomas off the canyon five hundred feet back.

He’s something _scary_ – all muscle and broad shoulders and guns strapped to his hips and thigh. His eyes are wild with something you can’t pin down. You’re nearly sure you see a smirk behind his black bandana; the creeping tan along his arms calls to man who spends his afternoons running from lawmen. His hair is like gold, messed from the afternoon ride and lawless activities.

You decide, in that moment, _you don’t like him._

From the bottom step of the carriage, he offers a hand.

You swat it away on instinct.

The look on your face is one of fire and determination.

You snap. “I can manage _fine_ , thank you.”

_That_ riles sudden laughter out of the gang. The one with the blue eyes gives a deep laugh then, his hat pressed to his abdomen as he does. He swipes at sweat along his brow, dropping a hand to his belt as he eyes you critically.

“And an _attitude_ t’ boot!”

Anger flares in your chest, face twisted into a horribly mean look. You help yourself down on shaking knees. Your heels hit the hot dirt and you stumble; the summer heat of West Elizabeth is like a punch in the gut. Jenny is quick to glue herself to your side, fisting your dresses sleeves in a tight grip. You glance to the back of the carriage, watching as two other men begin to off load trunks of belongings onto their horses. You spot yours, a small black one, throw among their stash.

“Awfully kind a’ you folks t’ stop fer us,” says another highwayman now, “Now, if you’d –”

“If you’re _smart_ ,” bites your father, “You’ll let us go. I have _money_ , I can write a check –”

“That,” the one with the blue eyes says as he raises a finger, “We know –”

“Then let us go!” cries your mother, “We’ll give you all we have and go on our way –”

“Betsy –”

“Shut up, John –!”

Suddenly, another gunshot. Everyone jumps as the sound ricochets around the red canyon.

It kicks dust between you and the blue-eyed outlaw.

Symbolism. What a thing.

* * *

Simple.

This was supposed to be _simple_.

_This_ is _not_ simple.

_ “O’Driscolls!” _

The gang scatters on instinct, running like ants under a boot at the sudden appearance of at least ten O’Driscolls on the canyon’s ledge – beneath the iron sights of their rifles, the gang is exposed and so is their damn loot; Arthur calls out to Charles and John quickly, fingers drawn between his lips as he whistles for his horse.

_“Grab th’ girl!”_ he cries, _“Grab ‘er an’ get outta here!”_

He didn’t specify _which_ girl.

Arthur, _really_ , didn’t think he’d _need_ to.

But, when the boys pull _Jenny_ from you and throw her on the back of Charles’ horse, you’re left pinned to the back side of the carriage as bullets swiss in and out of the wood. Arthur’s eyes are pulled wide as he realizes you’re the one they needed – he skids to the dirt at your feet, hand wrapping tight around your wrist as he pulls you towards his horse.

_ “Time t’ go, lady!” _

“Let go of me!”

“Will you stop –!”

You land a good punch on his arm, kicking as he drags you up with a huff and pins you in-front of him on the saddle – his horse bucks with an angry whinny and bucks. You pale, motion sickness roaring back up like a tide as you become a bit more passive.

Arthur calls out to Dutch and the others over his shoulder:

_ “Get the goods out of here – we gotta go!” _

Your eyes widen as horses begin to pour into the canyon behind you. You shriek as a bullet whizzes by your head and you swear you could feel the air on it. Your hands fist the saddle, voice pulling a startled yell from your throat as the outlaw kicks his golden spurs into the belly of the beast underneath you and sends you both flying into a sprint. Your back hits his chest, hair flying wildly.

Arthur sputters, spitting hair out of his mouth. He pulls a face before calling out.

“C’mon, boy! _Hiya!”_

The pace is grueling, fueled by the hot iron on their heels. Bullets are whizzing by left and right, the clobber of hooves filling your ears. You can feel him, the blue-eyed man, hunching over you, trying his best to protect you from the firefight. He snaps the reigns with a flick of his wrist, pulling his bandana down so he can breathe. He turns, looking back to check his six, losing his hat in the process.

The first time you ever get a good look at Arthur Morgan, he’s cursing like a sailor, sweating like a pig and running for his life.

As far as first impressions go, this is just about right.

The sudden change in sound of his horses hooves catches your attention and you blink down, noticing the change in terrain – it’s a _hollow_ sound.

You’re on railroad tracks.

You realize, suddenly, the outlaw is trying to make a pass, to hike up and around the bridge the other gang is trying to choke him off at – but, when he hits the trail, Arthur tugs fast the other way. He can see O’Driscolls are lining the ridge to the South, towards camp, and the split decision in direction sends you both and his horse careening across a narrow bridge.

You blink down.

_KAPLUNKKAPLUNKKAPLUNKKAPLUNK._ The sound of the hooves on the bridge is panic inducing.

Twenty feet down, the Dakota river rushes by.

A bullet kicks wood splinter up ahead of you.

“What the hell are you _doing?!_ ” you scream in a rush over the wind, fingers gripping the saddle, “ _You’re going to kill us both!”_

“Will you shut up?!”

_ Don’t remind me. _

Down the valley, there’s at least fifteen men on horses following you, their rides splashing through a shallow end of the river as they cross fifty feet up the hill – to your right, it’s the same; you’d be thankful if they were lawmen, but you have an inkling of a feeling these O’Driscoll boys are out to get the same thing as the man behind you on the saddle.

The bridge, though? Well, it’s a clear shot – no winding trails and hills – and as Arthur begins to pull ahead, begins to think this just _might_ work…

The blaring horn of a train hits his ears as it exits the tunnel up ahead.

Your eyes widen.

His horse comes to a painfully sharp stop and you fly forward; the horse gives a horrible cry as it realizes the impending danger just as you both do.

“There’s – oh no, _no, no-_ -”

“Yeah, I see it, damn it–”

“Train, _train!”_

Arthur turns back then, yanking the reigns in a panic and trying to speed his horse up, but – there’s no way. Not with that 1,500 ton, coal swallowing, iron giant barreling towards them. Not with you and him both on the back of it. Arthur curses, eyes moving to the edge of the bridge as they ride at a breaking pace.

The river below is deep there. The water is dark blue, glittering in the high afternoon sun.

His eyes are wild, blinking back at the train over his shoulder.

“… Son of a bitch,” he grumbles, coming to the realization that this is going to have to happen.

Suddenly, he pulls back on the reigns, They stop. He swings his legs over the edge of his horse.

_ CHUG CHUG CHUG CHUG! CHOOOOOOOOOOOO – _

“What are you _doing?!”_ you shriek again, kicking his hands away, clawing at the reigns.

“Nice day fer a swim, don’t you think –”

“What – _get off –!”_

The horn blares, louder this time, and the chug of wheels rattle the bridge. You both turn to look, eyes pulled into panic. Arthur’s grip on your waist is tight, hauling you over his shoulder as he slaps the back of his horse, sending it off in a blink. You screech, clawing at his back as the train gets closer and closer and the bridge is shaking and the horn rattles your chest and it’s getting closer and closer and closer –

_ CHUG CHUG CHUG CHUG – _

And the last thing you see is the blue-eyed outlaw’s apologetic look as he hauls you and _then himself_ off the bridge at Fool’s Pass.

_ – CHOOOOoooooo! _

_ SPLASH! _

* * *

Kidnapping.

It’s always simpler said aloud.


	2. OF EVADING THE LAW (AND OTHER FORCES)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and the outlaw you come to know as Arthur Morgan wash up on the riverbank of the Dakota, now tasked with avoiding the O'Driscolls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wowza! been a bit, hasn't it?

This isn’t good.

Arthur Morgan realizes, mid-plunge into the Dakota River, that he’d forgotten to ask if you knew how to _swim_.

Your shrieks on the way down, as the train roars by overhead, give him a pretty good indication of the answer.

(He’s not one to talk. His own screams echo off the rocky walls along the riverbank as the river rushes up to meet him.)

The outlaw hits the water with a hard splash and he hopes, off-handedly, that Sugarcube is alright. She’s a good horse, no doubt quick enough to outrun the iron steam engine. The feeling of the impact alone is like a hammerin gunshot to the chest — the river is freezing, spurring a startling amount of energy into him. Arthur breaks the surface of the water with a fish-like gasp, treading as the sudden current begins to sweep him down-stream. The riverbank flies by on either side of him.

Arthur suddenly feels a bit guilty about hurling you to your potential death.

With a sputtered groan, his eyes dart across the rapids as he tries to keep his head above water.

He sputters, eyes scanning the rapids wildly. “Where _are_ you, lady?!”

“You — _ergh! You idiot!”_

_There_ you are.

Oop. Gone again.

The panic in your chest is nothing akin to the weight of your skirts— they drag you down, head bobbing beneath the water, and you can’t help but think that _this_ is the last way you saw today going.

Being strangled to death by your dress, beneath the rapids of the Dakota River? Well, that seemed much less plausible than being strangled to death by your own mother, especially considering the rather grand failure of this morning.

Hours earlier, you’d been bound by propriety and politeness to meet with the one Mr. Waylon Robbins... Not by your own volition, of course. Most things nowadays were never on your own accord. With the impending deal — a finely crafted strangulation of your freedom, orchestrated by your father and his greed — of your marriage, it’d been thought best to introduce the two soon-to-be-newlyweds to one another over a breakfast of eggs and biscuits and tea...

Well, Christ, you’ll take this over _that_ anyday. A thousand times over.

Even still, drowning is the _last_ way you’d thought you’d ever die. I mean, sure, Jenny had pushed you through a hole in the ice up at the lake one winter and as horrible as it was, you’d been hauled out by your father and lived. It was cold and horrible but it happened in a blink.

You’re beginning to realize, as you spot the impending rapids down the river, this is just the start.

And Arthur realizes, with an annoyed sense of moral responsibility, he can’t just let you drown. That would just be... unbecoming. And rude. And probably get him chewed out by the likes of Dutch and Hosea. And... I mean, that’s just bad business. You were still worth _something_ , soggy or not.

And, so, he snags a log as he flies by the riverbank, carried by the current, and hauls himself towards you with it in tow.

You bob up finally, gasping for air as the outlaw’s hands find you. They pull you up, knotted in the back of your waist-coat — you claw at the sudden kick of the summer air as you break the surface, hands clinging to his vest as he yelps; your hands plant on his broad shoulders and you push him down in a rush to get your head above water. His blonde head disappears in a flash of limbs, and then reappears with a wet cough. His voice sounds like a deadly bark.

“Quit tryna drown me, woman!” he bites, “Grab on!”

The stray log is damp and soggy and nearly gives way when you grip it tight — but it manages to keep you both afloat; it gives you enough time to sweep the mess of hair that’s hanging in your face aside, catch your breath, count your lucky stars and give the outlaw beside you a look that could kill.

“I oughta _kill you!”_ you seethe.

“Don’t make me regret savin’ you,” Arthur starts, voice rising as he raises his finger as his other arm grips the log tightly, _“Do not —”_

The sound of the approaching roar sends both your heads whipping to the rapids ahead.

_“Just hold on!”_

“What the _hell_ do you think I’m doin’?!”

You both hit the rapids faster than you thought.

The ten foot plunge is fast and you both scream on the way down (though, Arthur will probably deny that fact until the day he dies) — right into the plumes of water roaring over the rocks at the high point of the river. Your grip is locked onto the driftwood as you sputter, spitting the water out of your face as you’re hit again and again with the rapids.

“This!” you bellow as you cough, _“is all your fault!”_

“I am _aware!”_

Another scream. Another drop, this time cracking the log in half and sending you both down separate trajectories. Arthur scrambles, trying to grab your log but a stray rapid clocks him in the side of the face and sends him reeling as you screech, clawing onto the oak limb for dear life.

It must be rather comical, to see two people clinging to logs as they ride through the rapids. The current is so fast it zips you by a family of deer — they remain undisturbed, raising their heads in question for a moment as you pass.

There’s a break in the rapids, then, water settling slowly as you try to catch your breath — only to be cut short by the outlaw’s panicked bellow:

_“HOLD ON!”_

Waterfalls.

Beautiful in photos, art, and from a viewing distance.

Terrifying when you’re plunging down one at a breakneck speed.

Luckily, the drop is short enough that you survive, plopping you unceremoniously into a shallow pool at the base of the Dakota. Your dress acts like a parachute and on impact, it nearly drowns you. Amidst the floating skirts, your struggle to tread your way to the surface.

Heaving, you haul yourself from the water and drag you and your skirts ashore — you must look like a drowned rat of sorts, plaits run loose and hair dangling in your face. Your dress weighs a metric ton, bogged down with water and various debris.

You collapse on the riverbank, breathless.

The outlaw follows shortly after.

He crawls onto the shore, braced up on his elbows. You watch, spotting the water running off the beginning of a beard along his chin. His hair, once a lighter blonde, has gone darker from the _swim_ — strands hang in his face as he plants his forehead on his wrist and groans.

For a few moments, there’s silence.

Between the two of you, there’s just the roar of the river and the labored breaths of lungs aching from the pummel of the rapids.

Slowly, you sit up.

“Who th’ hell do you think you are, then?” you seeth, pushing the thick tendrils of hair from your face like a curtain parting a stage show, “Huh?”

You struggle with the weight of your dress. You don’t think you’ve ever been this soaked in your life. This dress... as if you hadn’t cared for it before. Prying at the high collar, you snap the top button off and rub at your neck.

“Right,” the cowboy drawls sarcastically, water dripping from his scowl — he hauls himself up from the dirt, hands pushing back his soaked blonde hair before he momentarily realizes his hat is gone. With a growl, he waves his hands as he speaks and looks around the riverbank, “ _Sure_ , lemme jus’ climb up on m’ horse an’ bring y’ right on back t’ ma and pa...”

For a moment, you’re stuck _staring_ at the now maskless stranger before you. Up on the bridge, when he’d pulled that ink black bandana down from his face, you hadn’t _gotten_ a good look at him. Now, you’re staring straight at the outlaw with a slack jaw, trying your best to ignore the _blaring_ reality that he is very handsome.

“You were the one that _threw us off a bridge!”_ you guffaw, throwing your hands as you voice splinters into a shriek.

“Oh, m’ sorry, lady, next time I’ll let y’ get flattened by a caboose. How’s that?”

He’s standing now, long legs carrying him towards the rocks by the shore. As you desperately try to wobble yourself to your feet and wring out what water you can from your dress, you hear him make a surprised snort before drawing out a quiet _“there you are”._

When the cowboy stands to full height, he’s got his hat in his hands.

“You best take me back _now_.”

You spy the wrinkle of his nose as he drops the gamblers hat on his head — dark lashes narrow as his eyes are cast in the shadow of the brim. As he nears, you finally realize how _big_ the outlaw is. He’s tall, and he’s broad. You can see the shape of muscles beneath the dark shirt sticking to him. He rips the bandana from his neck, moving to wring it out as he speaks. There is sun kissed skin there along his neck.

(A part of your brain stutters at the sight — the large rugged outlaw... _Surely_ he’d be the subject of whispered chatter by ladies in parlors everywhere. Handsome, gruff, big... His type was _certainly_ romanticized enough in those books of yours —)

“I could _leave y’ here,_ all alone in th’ wilderness,” he says, tone biting back, “Or take yer high society behind t’ th’ nearest railroad station ‘n’ _dump ya...”_

He swats the banada against his leg before tying it around his neck once more. His finger darts into your face. He waggles it, emphasizing his point.

“But there’s one thing I ain’t gonna do,” he prods your shoulder, “An’ that’s take _orders_ from some _spoiled brat.”_

When he pushes past you, you don’t move.

You... well, you’re tied between wanting nothing but to rear up and _slap_ the man and wanting to _run_.

The running part... it’s not born out of fear. There’s a part of you that’s beginning to wonder _how much_ of this grand plan was his... The outlaw before you _certainly_ didn’t have to whisk you away from the firefight, nor haul you off a bridge to escape impending flattening. Even still, as he digs through his satchel by a nearby rock, you can spy the irritation set in his features. Not anger.

Even more so... _running_ from everything that had happened this morning?

You wonder if your father will even _worry_.

If this man’s little gang of bandits thought they were gonna get money out of snatching you, well... So be it. You weren’t going to break the news to the outlaw before you until you were safe. Outta the woods.

... Was getting out of the woods even an option?

It’s gonna be a hike.

... Your dress is going to be a problem.

It was a problem this morning, then in the carriage and... Christ alive, it doesn’t even take a moment of consideration before you busy yourself with prying at the sogged woolen bodice at the top of your gown — you can feel that damn crinolette digging into your backside. No doubt the dress’ understructure has snapped... As you wobble in the mud and curse, you can _feel_ the outlaw’s eyes on you.

“What in the _hell_ are you doing?”

In response, you turn and _whip_ the soggy black overcoat at his chest. It hits him square with a hardy slap. He sputters. You move on, digging beneath your petticoat and unceremoniously tearing the already ripped seam where the whalebone of the crinolette had poked through. The charcoal colored heap of a cage is kicked aside by your heeled boots.

Arthur is... well, _looking away_ , but also stuck with a bit of shock on his usually sour expression. The material in his hands is heavy — and well embroidered. No doubt expensive. Your dress was fashionable, seemingly plucked from some Saint Denis mannequin in an attempt to impress. Yet, here you are, shedding it like a snake sheds its skin: with not a care in the world for keeping it.

The summer heat isn’t as bad now — the billowing white sleeves of your white chemise stick to your arms and your corset feels _looser_ than before, but you’re considerably more comfortable in your two layers of petticoats and corset cover.

So, you hike your skirt up, step out of the mud, and begin to walk. Chin high, strides wide.

You spare the outlaw behind you a snarl.

“I am _not_ a spoiled brat,” you say, moving along the sunny riverbank. You blink back at him, not hearing footsteps, and narrow your eyes. He’s standing there, still holding the bodice, “And _that_ isn’t your size.”

He throws the bodice to the mud before cursing; there’s some satisfaction in that, at least.

“ _Where_ ,” comes the frustrated growl as he throws his head back to the sky, “do you think yer goin’?”

“ _Downstream_ ,” you throw your hands as you move to hike up the rocks and into the grass embankment overlooking the sandy riverbed, “Someone’s oughta have a farm around here —”

“Right, since you seem to be so well versed in the lay of the land...”

Suddenly there are two hands on your shoulders that abruptly turn you and steer you in the direction of the woods to your left. You snarl. Quickly, you yank your shoulders from his grip.

“Get yer _hands_ off of me —”

“Lady, we ain’t goin’ downstream because th’ O’Driscolls are gonna be lookin’ fer y’ downstream.”

“Who th’ hell are you, again?” you can’t help but turn on your heel. Your words come out as hot as fire, accompanied by the ugly rearing of your own finger prodding his chest, “And remind me why I should listen to a _damn thing you say?”_

He swats your hand away and tightens his jaw. “Them O’Driscoll’s are bad news —”

“Yea, well you ain’t exactly _peachy_ either, Mister...”

You wave your hand like a water mill, trying to coax the name out of him.

“Arthur,” he narrows his blue eyes sharply, “Arthur Morgan —”

_Arthur_. He looks like an Arthur. Certainly no Knight of the Roundtable but... _Sturdy_. Strong.

You drop both hands to your hips. “I didn’t ask for this, Mr. Morgan. Not to be snatched up and dropped in the middle of some Wild West fairytale — dueling gangs and... and _wild horse chases...”_

You scoff.

You wave your hands and begin to walk. Again.

There’s a gruff laugh behind you that shatters in a pained grumble of cursing. You begin to walk along the riverbank once more, ignoring his direction.

_“I assure you,_ Miss Turner,” comes the biting remark, “This ain’t no fairytale — an’ them O’Driscolls aren’t gonna be as nice as m’bein’.”

“Surely. As you’re the _picture_ of a modern gentleman, Mr. Morgan.”

God _almighty_ , he... All Arthur can think of is of course this is what would come of a simple job the others put together. Of course he’d get stuck with some hoity-toity lil’ lady on the edge of the damn Heartlands. Of _course_ , because when do jobs ever go wrong? Only when he’s there t’ clean them up, apparently.

“Yer testin’ my _patience_ , lady.”

“Th’ feeling is mutual, then.”

“Stop walkin’.”

“ _No_.”

“Yer gonna get us both _killed_ —”

You swat at a bug on your neck and scowl. “I am _sure_.”

Suddenly, there’s something that loops around your back foot. A sharp tug sends you reeling towards the grass, and you blink down at the ankle of your boot to find it’s a _rope_ — and attached to said rope is one smug looking cowboy.

The look of shock on your face is rather satisfying.

Arthur Morgan then flicks his wrist, managing to tangle your other ankle as you kick your leg.

“I told you,” he musters with a cock of the head, a bit too lighthearted for your liking, as he nears, “That I was bein’ _nice_...”

In a blink, there’s a loop of rope cast around your arms, halting you from reaching for your ankle. In a flurry of skirts, you wiggle — spitting incredulous curses all the while.

“My, my,” Arthur mutters and rounds your backside, the only sound besides his voice being the tinker of spurs, “What colorful language for a lady.”

He makes quick work of tying your wrists behind your back.

“Let me go.”

You can hear the smugness in his voice.

“I think not.”

He yanks, and the ropes get tight. Tight enough that you can’t move your arms. Tight enough that he helps you up with two hands under your arms before dusting off your shoulders with the _smuggest_ of smiles, and tight enough that when he unceremoniously hauls you upwards and proceeds to throw you over his shoulder, all you can do is curse and wiggle like an earthworm freshly pried from the soil.

_“You son of a bitch —”_

“I’ve been called much worse,” he offers as he begins to walk towards the wooded area to the left of the river. The shade casts the pattern of the leaves along the back of his charcoal colored dress shirt, “By ladies much nastier than you, Miss. Might have t’ try harder if yer tryna hurt my feelings.”

You grunt, wincing as he readjusts you on his shoulder. His hand is rough on your leg, pinning the limbs in place as your struggle slowly decreases. It’s apparent he’s not going to let up, so you sag in defeat and grit your teeth.

“Where th’ hell are you taking us, then?” you bite, head turned to stare at the back of his head, “Gonna throw me off another bridge?”

“Keep that mouth a’ yours runnin’ an’ I might consider it.”

* * *

He walks for a while.

Long enough for you to see the same tree three times over, and long enough that your hands have started to go numb from their spot behind your back.

You’re genuinely surprised the outlaw has managed to keep you slung over his shoulder as long as he has with nary a single complaint. It makes you wonder if being this brutish was simply his job within his little gang of ne’er-do-wells.

He passes that same rock — the one that looks like an upside down pony — and you heave a sigh.

“You’re lost, aren’t you?”

Arthur tries not to sound as sheepish as he feels.

The Heartlands are still new to him — it’s been a handful of weeks now that they’ve settled in... With Sean back, and the Micah licking his wounds from his brief stint in the Strawberry jail, this job was supposed to be one that could send them onto the next little pretty piece of land.

Still, Arthur hadn’t ventured this far West of Valentine for anything more than hunting once or twice with Charles. With the looming threat of the O’Driscolls sniffing about South of them, towards the grasslands and open streams... Well, Arthur was mostly trying to figure out what to do next.

Stealing some poor farmer’s horse was probably their best bet. Could get them outta harms way quick enough to dart back up to Horseshoe Overlook...

But with Miss Mouthy over his shoulder, there was no tellin’ she wouldn’t scream wolf the moment the shepherd was within sight.

Arthur huffs a sigh to match yours. Then, he hauls you up off his shoulder and places you gingerly on the ground. It’s a rather comical sight — you sit there, in the grass, glaring daggers into him as he perches himself on a nearby rock and digs out his satchel.

The waterlogged map in his hands flops sadly.

“Why didn’t you use that earlier, then, huh?”

_“My hands,”_ he mutters, “were preoccupied.”

You watch him attempt once more to flip it up and watch it sag with the pulpy disappointment only river water can bring. Your brow quirks.

“Looks like it ain’t legible _anyways_.”

The ink has run all over the page.

You groan, dropping your head into your lap as best you can. Arthur bites his tongue, swallowing as he shoves the useless little bit of paper back into his satchel and taps his foot. You squint up at him in the afternoon sun, watching a glimmer of hot light flare around his hat like a halo.

“You at least got somethin’ t’ eat in there?”

“Snacks ain’t my biggest concern right now —”

Suddenly, there’s a snapping of twigs.

Both of your heads turn owlishly to the noise.

Arthur is fast to slip off the rock to his knees, his hand roughly seizing itself across your mouth as he presses a quick finger to his lips. Your eyes are wild, anger flashing in your gaze as you tear yourself from his grip. You stare incredulously at him before turning back to the wilderness and _listen_.

Arthur is quick to brandish his pistol, one hand balancing his low crough on the rock beside him. You watch as he peeks over the rock, only to curse tightly when he spies two O’Driscoll boys wandering —

“Why should I be quiet?”

It’s a whisper, but loud enough that Arthur _lunges for you_. You kick him in the shin, sending him groaning as he topples next to you in the grass; you roll onto your side, trying your best to wriggle away.

“You untie me _now_ , I’ll be quiet,” you hiss when he hauls you back behind the rock, “If not, I’ll holler —”

“Shut _up,_ ” he reaches around, hauling you up against the rock and pinning you there with a hand over your mouth, _“Shut up now an’ I’ll untie you —”_

You are a damn minx.

Arthur is cursing you six ways to hell when the two near the rock...

_“Listen, boss keeps tellin’ us that the girl is worth a lotta money —”_

_“Yeah, well, if th’ Van der Linde’s were after ‘er too ‘e must be right.”_

_“Awful lotta work for a ransom if y’ ask me,”_ mutters the other in an Irish lilt, _“‘Specially since Colm is just gonna put a bullet between ‘er eyes once ‘e gets th’ money.”_

Your eyes are wider than a mile, Arthur reasons. It’s fear, there. The first time he’s really seen it on your face since this all began... well, save from haulin’ you off the bridge before. Your eyes dart around, like you’re tryna make sense of what you’re hearing.

_“We got th’ sister —”_

_“We find ‘er, it’s double the pay.”_

Their voices begin to trail off. Slowly, the conversation drifts into the wind, and you realize the two men have disappeared from Arthur’s immediate sight.

You let out the breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

Arthur slackens his grip on you, exhaling slightly before peeking over the rock once more. When he leans back down, he brandishes his knife from his boot.

He spins you around roughly.

The knife glints in the sunlight.

“You try anything funny, an’ I’ll throw y’ t’ those wolves myself.”

Christ, it feels good when he snaps the rope off from around your wrists.

“Who were they?” you ask, swallowing roughly as you rub the tender skin along your chemise’s lace sleeves; your voice wavers and you regret the way it sounds instantly, “The O’Driscolls?”

“You bet,” he mutters, bending to cut the rope from your ankles, “Like I said, they ain’t nice.”

“The Van der Linde’s, then?” you follow up with, voice leaning high into your curiosity, “That’s... well, you’re the ones who jumped our carriage.”

“S’ right.”

There’s a pause. You furrow your brow.

“They said they had m’ sister.”

Arthur squints down at you, watching worry sweep across your face like the rush of the oceans tide.

“... Seems so.”

And that isn’t good.


End file.
